


look for me under your boot-soles

by glass_icarus



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-31
Updated: 2009-03-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:49:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass_icarus/pseuds/glass_icarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thousand years later, Arthur finds Merlin again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look for me under your boot-soles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [such_heights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/such_heights/gifts).



> Remember that made-by-me meme from yonks ago? Yeah, this one's yours. &amp;hearts Much of this fic is owed to ~~my midnight lover*~~ Google- OHAI, pretty pictures that don't belong to me!- and the rest to Wikipedia. Any errors can be attributed to me and my relative laziness in fact-checking. Also, title &amp; excerpts are borrowed from Walt Whitman's _Song of Myself_.
> 
> *Bonus points for those of you who get this reference! ;)

_The last scud of day holds back for me,  
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd  
wilds,  
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk._

 

He stands at what feels like the edge of the world, arms outstretched and heavy with magic beneath the wide-open sky. A hawk circles high overhead; a merlin, a sign.

Merlin closes his eyes and lets go.

 

His father, being a professor, likes history. Arthur wouldn't have a problem with this were it not for the unfortunate fact that their last name is Pendragon, which seems to have given Uther certain delusions of Ye Olde Family Grandeur. As it is, Uther is prone to spending entire days in the stacks of dusty old libraries and emerging with esoterica that Arthur could really care less about (like the location of [Camlann](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camlann) or the existence of [Gwenhwyfach](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gwenhwyfach)). He usually saves his most enthusiastic monologues for Morgana, who is gracious enough to smile and nod even when she isn't listening, but there are the occasional excruciating nights when Uther will actually show up to dinner and ramble on at both of them.

Still, Arthur reflects, looking down at Somerset from St. Michael's Tower, there are times when it's actually pretty cool to be Uther Pendragon's son. It's easy to ignore the high-flown academic warfare going on behind him for the soft green of the rolling hills below, though he spares a moment to pity the poor guide from the National Trust (who _clearly_ had no idea what he was getting into).

His iPhone buzzes. Arthur fishes it out of his pocket absently. _Are you appreciating the irony yet?_ Morgana's written. _You're ARTHUR PENDRAGON, and you're at GLASTONBURY TOR._

_youre just jealous. clearly it is DESTINY that i am here and you are busy &amp;c._

_Arse. Are you positive those delusions don't run in the family?_

Arthur smirks and sends her a picture of the approaching sunset.

_Bastard_, Morgana replies. Arthur doesn't deign to respond, preferring to quit while he's ahead.

"Arthur," his father calls, apparently done with tearing apart his most recent academic sparring partner. The National Trust guide is nowhere to be seen, presumably off licking his proverbial wounds.

"Coming," Arthur shouts back. He takes one last look- sun glowing golden-warm on stone- before starting down from the hilltop, the wind in his ears whispering _Arthur, Arthur_.

 

The innkeeper, Tom, delights in telling them stories of the paranormal when they return (apparently, it's a slow night behind the bar). Third-hand accounts though they are, the presence of strange lights and sounds on the Tor at night seems to be a fairly universal consensus.

Uther snorts, innate skepticism winning out over his good manners. "Fairytales," he says dismissively. "I'll believe them when someone backs them up with solid evidence."

Privately, Arthur thinks that a _scholar of Arthurian legend_ has no business pointing fingers, but his father has always been full of such contradictions in logic.

Tom opens his mouth to reply, but his daughter Gwen bustles in with impeccable timing and several pints of beer. "Now, then," she says, smiling. "I'm sure you've had a long day. Gaius sent us an extra keg from the brewery, so these are on the house."

Arthur smiles and toasts her with relief as the conversation shifts to the finer points of distillation. Gwen grins shyly and ducks back into the kitchen.

Later on, the dishes done and the bartop cleaned, she re-emerges, perches on the stool next to Arthur's. "It's not _exactly_ superstition, you know," she says.

"The lights and all?"

"Well, yes." Gwen flushes a little, sneaking a glance to make sure that her father isn't in hearing range. "I mean, we get our share of-" she makes a vague twirling gesture with one finger- "but there's a good percentage of the people who come back telling stories that aren't. The, er, nutty type."

Arthur cocks an eyebrow. "I wouldn't know, I'm sure- though I wouldn't say my dad does, either. Too many books, and he forgets that King Arthur's supposed to be a myth, not a part of our family tree."

"Is your last name really Pendragon?" Gwen says curiously. "Er- not that it's any of my business, really, it's just- my dad was entering your reservation, and I thought it was some sort of joke. Until you arrived, I mean."

"If it was a joke, someone played it a few generations beforehand," Arthur says dryly. "Coming to the Tor, though- that was all _him_." He jerks a thumb toward the other end of the bar, where Uther is draining his mug.

Gwen stifles a giggle. Glancing over, she rises. "Well, it's getting late. I'd better close up."

Arthur nods, yawning, and trudges toward their room with a halfhearted wave.

 

In the night he dreams of the Tor, its inexorable looming patience of earth and stone, the wind rushing toward it, around it, away again (like the tide, like a pulse, like the breath of a man sleeping). Balls of light hover along the terraces, silvery-white and flickering, searching for something, someone. Arthur frowns; they look vaguely familiar. He reaches out to catch one, but his fingers pass through its surface as if it isn't there.

The ball turns into an eye, blue and startled. _Arthur?_ says a voice. The sound of it tugs at his memory, but the shock of hearing his own name throws him out of the dream.

"Arthur. _Arthur._"

He wakes to his father's hand on his shoulder, impatient. "Arthur, get up. We're heading out to the Tor. It's nearly sunrise."

Arthur groans, rolls heavy and loose-limbed out of bed. By the time he's brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, his father's already outside. The sound of an engine starting makes him jump.

"I thought we weren't allowed to drive there?" he yawns, stumbling toward the rental car.

Uther waves a hand dismissively, sliding into the driver's seat. "No, we're just not allowed to _park_ there, and anyway, Geoffrey owes me a favor."

_I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,  
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags._

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

 

His father disappears the moment they arrive, talking animatedly to the elderly man- Geoffrey, it seems- waiting in front of Little St. Michael's.

"Arthur," Geoffrey calls over his shoulder. "We'll be a while, I think; you might as well take a look round the Gardens while you're waiting. Technically, the [Chalice Well](http://www.chalicewell.org.uk/) doesn't open until ten in the morning, but-" he winks, waving one arm in its general direction- "I trust you are your father's son, hmm?"

Arthur blinks, then shrugs, heading for the Gatehouse out of sheer force of habit- the obedience Uther demands of his children is far more ingrained in Arthur than in Morgana, who has the advantage of being a step-daughter. (Sometimes he envies her that freedom, the confidence she has in speaking her opinions, in pursuing her goals rather than Uther's. Arthur himself is too conscious of the possible consequences of his actions, too wary of attracting his father's displeasure or disappointment to take many chances.) Not for the first time, he thinks that it's a habit he ought to put more effort into breaking.

There's no one at the entrance yet, so Arthur hops over the gate, feeling vaguely guilty about not paying the admission fee. He picks his way carefully along the curving path, lined with shrubs in vibrant, disgusting health. In the pale light of morning, the masses of flowers- lavender, lilies, roses- stand out even more vividly against the green. _Morgana would love this place_, he thinks, then, a little surprised, I _kind of love this place_.

He stops at the pool- _the Vesica Pool_, Uther's voice booms in his mind- at the end of the path, sitting down on the stones beside it to watch the water swirl in lazy figure eights. The water trickling down from the source has a reddish hue. Arthur dips a finger in, curious, and presses it to his mouth.

 

The sharp taste of iron blooms bitter and heavy on his tongue, startling enough that his hand slips from the pool's edge and into the water. In the split-second before it touches the surface, he notices a hawk circling in the reflected sky.

Memory breaks over him like a wave, in images he'd associated with his bedtime stories, years ago: a castle in the distance, shining white and beloved beneath the sun; a sword in his hand; a queen at his side; a circle of faces- comrades, knights- sitting together around a table. Long fingers clasped around his own, never quite as callused as he's expecting; blue eyes flashing gold with power; warmth. A name.

"Merlin."

_If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles._

 

Arthur opens his eyes, dizzy.

"Oh, good," says the voice from his dream, "it's about time you woke up."

Arthur tries to press a hand to his head, but discovers that his fingers are currently looped around someone else's. He looks up into bright blue eyes, half-obscured by unruly dark curls.

"Merlin?"

"Honestly, you prat," Merlin says, "I was beginning to think I'd have to wait _forever_."

"Hey!" Arthur says indignantly. "And what do you mean, wait?"

"Well, it did take you a _thousand years_ to come and find me, even with your bloody surname intact. Bastard."

Merlin's voice is light, but there's a shadow lurking behind his smile. There have been other times, Arthur realises suddenly, other lives beyond the first, all of them spent searching for... _this_.

"I- didn't remember," he says. "I still don't, not quite. It's all in fragments, still."

"I know," Merlin replies. "It was the price of your healing, on Avalon. I, ah, set up a way around it, but I had to bind myself here, to keep the balance."

Arthur stares at him incredulously. "So," he drawls. "You effectively _chained yourself to a rock_ in order to, what? Let me remember things in pieces? _Idiot_."

Merlin laughs, splaying a hand over his face. "Oh, god, _exactly_ the same," he mutters. "If I'd known you were going to be like that I wouldn't have bothered, _Sire_."

Arthur scowls and tugs at his hand, sending Merlin toppling onto the ground beside him. "Thanks a lot," he growls. "Well? You said you'd found a way to restore-" he waves a hand- "all that, get on with it!"

Merlin smiles up at him, breathless and affectionate. "_Exactly_ the same," he repeats, and tugs Arthur down by the nape of the neck to kiss him, eyes flashing gold. An exhilarated loop of magic swirls from his palm up toward the sky, the brightness of their shared joy calling hundreds of starlings to soar above them in glorious flight.


End file.
